


There's no healing the wound

by meridian_rose (meridianrose)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale smites an oc offscreen but I don't count that as major or minor character death, Blood and Injury, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Knife Wound, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Romantic Friendship, Secret Injury, Stitches, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, description of injury, non-healing injury, nonsexual intimacy, self-administered first aid, shameless use of Queen lyrics, this fandom has the best tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 18:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20878682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridianrose/pseuds/meridian_rose
Summary: Crowley gets hurt but when he can't heal the wound he doesn't do the sensible thing and tell Aziraphale. Instead he hides the truth, tries to fix it himself, and when it looks like the wound might be fatal drags Anathema into the situation. When Aziraphale does find out he's furious as only a angel at risk of losing his beloved demon can be.





	There's no healing the wound

**Author's Note:**

> For [Whumptober 2019](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187785964678/whumptober2019-october-approaches-and-so-does); I managed to hit several of the prompts but I've chosen to tag this one as prompt 24 "secret injury"  
Title from the Queen song "Scandal"

"Hey," Anathema said as she opened the door. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Shouldn't have burnt your second book of incredibly specific predictions," Crowley said pointedly. "Or maybe one of those Tarot things you sell online might have told you."

"I don't read for myself."

Crowey sighed. "Can I come in for a minute?"

Anathema stepped back from the doorway and let him enter the cottage. She couldn't fail to miss the way he favoured his left side, hand pressed against his torso, leg dragging as if he couldn't lift it fully.

"Can I get you some tea?" she asked as he dropped onto one of the wooden dining chairs in her cosy kitchen. "Or maybe some whisky?"

"Yeah," Crowley said and when she paused and raised an eyebrow he added, "whisky."

She put the glass in front of him and Crowley grabbed it, downed the amber liquid in one gulp. Without a word Anathema refilled it before she took the seat across from him. This one he sipped. The silence dragged on.

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" Anathema asked.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?"

"Well, I am a witch, prophecies and Tarot or not. And because you showed up here without a word practically limping," she said. "I certainly don't think it's for my liquor. I'm sure you have more refined tastes."

He slipped off his glasses, laid them on the table. She inhaled deeply as she took in his golden, slitted, eyes, but otherwise didn't react.

"You're clever, Anathema," Crowley said. "I hope you're clever enough."

She frowned, tensed in her seat.

"That's not a threat," Crowley said. "It's more like wishful thinking."

He finished the second glass of whisky. Slowly, wincing, eased off his black leather jacket, dropping it over the back of the chair. He stood, so Anathema could see a dark stain on the black t-shirt he was wearing.

Trembling fingers lifted the hem of the t-shirt, pulling it up to expose a jagged gash in Crowley's side. The wound was inflamed and surrounded by pinpricks which themselves were raised and angry against the pale skin. Blood was even now welling up in tiny droplets. It was dark in colour, more maroon than the scarlet or crimson Anathema expected. But he wasn't human, she thought, underneath the human shaped form he wore.

"What happened?"

"Got stabbed."

"I see that." It was her first guess though this was no clean cut. Not a knife or no ordinary knife anyway.

"It won't heal up," Crowley said. "I've tried but it keeps opening back up."

Anathema stared at him. "So you came to me because I'm a witch?"

"You're good at fixing people?" Crowley shrugged. He dropped the t-shirt, sat back down heavily. "You fixed whatisname, your witchfinder."

"Newt," she supplied automatically. "I gave him some aspirin and a Band-Aid. I think you need more than that. Can't Aziraphale help?"

Crowley shook his head. "Aziraphale doesn't know and you can't tell him."

*

One minute Crowley was walking home after a rather nice night out at a local pub - one Aziraphale wouldn't have enjoyed and so hadn't been invited to - and the next there was a blinding flash of light.

Crowley woke up lying on the floor of his flat, dizzy and confused. When he tried to get up a ripple of agony coursed through his left side. He grasped for the site instinctively. His hand came away covered in blood.

Annoyed, Crowley attempted to fix the injury. More annoyingly it refused to co-operate. Crowley lay staring at the ceiling for a while. Sometimes wounds could take a bit longer to heal. Fine, he could wait.

After a few minutes he pulled himself painfully to his feet and slumped on the sofa instead. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

Several hours later he woke up to find blood soaking his shirt and trousers.

Cursing, he unbuttoned his shirt and took a look at the injury. Not a standard knife wound he realised now. The edges were too rough.

A wisp of memory came back to him. A dagger shaped like a lightning bolt...

There were plenty of ways to hurt demons, some more effective than others. A blade forged in hellfire, tempered by holy water, was a particularly effective one. Crowley had heard about the daggers. Some templar had got hold of one during the Crusades, killed a lot of humans and at least two demons and maybe even an angel according to local gossip.

Crowley refused to panic. He forced himself to his feet. He bathed the wound, bound it as best as he could. Clean trousers, low riding ones to keep them away from the lower edge of the wound. Clean shirt. Pretend he was fine until he was fine. That had worked often enough before.

It didn't work this time. After another few hours sleep, this time in his bed, he was woken to Aziraphale's voice on the answer machine, reminding him of the exhibition at a local art gallery, the one they'd made plans for months ago.

Crowley gazed at the patch of blood he was lying in and swallowed hard. Time for more drastic measures.

A demonic miracle brought him a sewing kit and a mirror. He stood the mirror on his desk and threaded the needle. Drank a large measure of whisky to steel his resolve and jammed the needle into his flesh.

Tears streaked down his face before he was done, but soon several ugly but functional stitches held the wound closed. Crowley wiped his face and put on a fresh bandage and another clean shirt. He pasted on a smile and went to meet his angel.

Aziraphale, bless him, had no idea anything was wrong. He chattered excitedly about every picture as they wandered the exhibition. Crowley was silently relieved at their frequent pauses to admire various landscapes or portraits giving him time to catch his breath before trying to walk again without limping. Every step was a small agony.

It was only when Aziraphale suggested they visit the tea room before stopping at the gift shop that Crowley's noncommittal "Sure" drew his attention.

"Are you all right? Oh, this must have been dreadfully boring for you," Aziraphale fretted. "And I don't think they're licensed so there'll be no wine. We'll go elsewhere, you pick the venue."

Crowley always enjoyed watching Aziraphale be excited. Today he hadn't been able to focus enough to fully enjoy himself. And now Aziraphale was being thoughtful. And his side was throbbing.

"No," Crowley said, vaguely. "I, er, have to be somewhere."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Catch you later."

Crowley left as quickly as he could, right hand clasping his left hip as soon as he had his back to Aziraphale. He drove home and hurried inside, slamming the door of the flat.

Beneath his shirt the white bandage was again spotted with blood.

Fear gripped him, his blood running cold, his knees nearly giving way. He made it to the sofa and sat, hands shaking, mind racing.

He couldn't tell Aziraphale. It would worry the angel. That had been his rationale this morning, and he clung to it now. Surely this would go away. It was going to take longer than expected, that was all.

Besides, he told himself as he used the small scissors from the sewing kit to snip through the useless stitches, Aziraphale couldn't help. It would draw unwanted attention, an angel healing a demon. They'd escaped their planned executions with a dose of luck and correct interpretation of Agnes Nutter's prophecy, but who knew how long they'd be safe. Better not to make waves.

This time he went without alcohol, feeling the pain more but making the stitches smaller, neater, and more numerous. "Stay," he told them, the way he'd scold a misbehaving plant to "Grow".

All right, hellish-holy blade. Who'd done this? Surely it was either that prick Gabriel, or that other prick Hastur, both of whom were still furious over Crowley and Aziraphale surviving what should have killed them. In which case it might be all right to tell Aziraphale...

No. Couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk making things worse. Right now this was just Crowley's problem and until he knew more about how he'd been injured (the bright light suggested heaven more than hell but the memory of the blade felt demonic) he would keep this a secret.

He admired his new stitches, treated himself to a glass of wine, and went back to bed where he hoped sleep might aid the healing process.

When he woke it was two days later. The wound was throbbing, the stitches leaking pus. He nearly retched at the stink.

Sitting in the shower, water washing away the crusted blood and pus, Crowley sobbed bitterly as he again cut away the stitches, pulling the cotton from his flesh and letting the pieces wash down the drain. This injury wasn't going to heal. And he could feel it deep inside himself, the knowledge that this wouldn't just be discorporation but death.

After an hour or more he pulled himself together. He needed help and that help couldn't be Aziraphale. So he chose the next logical person. The witch, Anathema, who'd helped stop the apocalypse before burning an entire book of prophecy - Aziraphale had paled when she'd explained this, the first time the four of them, angel and demon, witch and witchfinder, had dinner at the little cottage. Despite her book burning she was still a witch and she couldn't burn that power or her lifelong knowledge away.

Which was how Crowley came to be sitting across from her now, trying to explain the unexplainable.

Anathema opened and closed her mouth a few times.

"We're beyond bathing the wound with yarrow," she said at last. "This might not be anything I can help with. I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am." Crowley leaned over and rested his head on the table. He needed to close his eyes, just for a moment.

Anathema moved to touch his shoulder. "Hey. Don't go to sleep."

"I'm tired. I've slept hours - days - since it happened but I'm tired," Crowley whined.

"Of course you are. You've lost a lot of blood." Anathema bustled about the kitchen. A few minutes later she placed a glass in front of him. "Drink."

Crowley squinted at it. "What is it?"

"Red wine."

"What else is in it?" Crowley asked, hearing the hesitation in her voice.

"Beetroot. Parsley. Salt. Lemon juice. You're lucky I don't have any bull's blood to hand," she said. "Before blood transfusions were a safe option that was one of the ingredients people would turn to. Oh, I wonder if I have some frozen minced beef in the freezer?"

Crowley gabbed the glass, grimaced, and swallowed the concoction down before she could add any raw beef or any other oddities.

Anathema left the room, returned with a laptop. She placed it on the table and typed for a while. She turned it and said, "Is this the blade?"

He squinted at the picture onscreen, a sketch of a bone handled knife with a zig-zag blade resembling lightning. "Close enough."

She nodded, turned the screen back to face her and stared at the screen, reading silently. It surprised Crowley when she swore and thumped the table next to her.

"What?" he asked, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"The only way to cure a wound made by this blade is to use the blade again," she said.

Crowley blinked. "That doesn't make sense."

Anathema blurred in his vision. "Fight fire with fire," she said. "I don't know, that's what this book says. It's an ancient text, scanned in by someone on Project Gutenberg - you should make a donation to the site if this works, you know. The chapter on supernatural weapons is clear about this blade. We have to find the blade or an identical one - there were five in existence at one point - and-"

Crowley didn't hear the rest, slumping across the table, knocking over the empty glasses and giving himself a bruise to the temple in the process.

*

Anathema paced outside her cottage, frowning a little at the badly parked Bentley on the roadside. It wasn't long before Aziraphale sprinted around the corner and up to meet her, slightly out of breath. There was no way he'd used public transport to get here this quickly. Angels had wings, she thought, and pushed the thought aside. She'd hesitated for barely a moment after Crowley passed out, grabbing her phone and calling Aziraphale.

"It's Anathema. Crowley's with me at the cottage. He's hurt. We need you." Short, to the point, said before Aziraphale could launch into one of his cheerful anecdotes.

To his credit Aziraphale was silent for precisely one second and when he spoke it wasn't to question her, merely to say, "I will be with you in five minutes."

He was true to his word.

"He's inside," she said by way of a greeting and led Aziraphale to the kitchen. She'd placed a cushion under Crowley's head but had otherwise left him where he was.

"What happened to him?"

Anathema explained as best she could from Crowley's story and the evidence on her laptop. Aziraphale's expression darkened as he gazed at the sketch.

"I destroyed three of those accursed blades," he said tightly. "You can't have humans running around with the power to destroy an angel. Or even a demon."

He bestowed an agonised glance on Crowley.

"We need the blade," Anathema said. "That's what the book says."

"I know. I know." Aziraphale crouched at Crowley's side, brushed gentle fingers across a pale cheek. He gathered Crowley up in his arms and took him to the living room, lay him down on the sofa, positioning a cushion under Crowley's head. He caressed the bruised temple, the purpling flesh becoming pink once more.

Then Aziraphale turned his attention to the wound, lifting up the bloodied t-shirt to see the injury himself. He sucked in a harsh breath. Fingertips brushed against the edges of the damaged flesh healed the marks left by Crowley's self-made stitches but not the stab wound.

"I know where to find a blade," Aziraphale said and he was perfectly, chillingly calm. He turned to Anathema and there was such fury in the usually kind eyes that she took a step back. "Watch over him until I return."

It was an order, albeit one she carried out without the terror he was provoking. She nodded numbly. Aziraphale strode to the front door, marching outside. Anathema fancied she heard the flap of giant wings. It was two minutes before she could bring herself to move, closing the front door and moving to kneel at Crowley's side, praying for them both that Aziraphale could fix this.

An hour passed. Anathema considered calling Newt but decided against it. He was better off at work, out of this madness. If he came home and found Crowley unconscious on the sofa so be it, but she wasn't going to beg him to leave work just so she wasn't alone.

Aziraphale entered without knocking which said a lot about his state of mind. His aura was clearly visible, possibily even to non-witches, red streaked and edged with sharp bright diamond like points. Anathema had to glance away from the light of righteous angelic rage, shuffling to kneel a little further away.

"Did you get it?" she asked, staring at the floor.

"Yes." Aziraphale said shortly. He pulled out a sheath, slid the terrible knife out. Anathema could feel the power of it, as if it were alive, as if it hungered to taste supernatural blood. She shivered and planned to cleanse every inch of the cottage once this was over.

Aziraphale held up the knife, pressed his lips briefly to the flat of the blade, murmured something Anathema couldn't hear. The blade glowed faintly.

"I'm so sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale said softly. He plunged the blade into Crowley's side, deep into the injury already left by the wicked knife.

Anathema was stunned. She wasn't sure what she'd expected but it wasn't that. Crowley's body bucked, hands scrambling across the sofa, a hoarse scream of pain issuing from the demon though he remained unconscious. Her own hands curled into fists, afraid and hurting for Aziraphale and Crowley alike, and unable to do anything to help.

The knife was withdrawn and the bloodied blade shoved back into the sheath. Aziraphale tossed it aside, kneeling down and pulling a linen handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed the cloth over the injury with one hand, the other stroking Crowley's cheek.

"It's over now," Aziraphale said and his rage was gone. There was only love and desperation for that love to be returned in the room now. "You're all right now, Crowley. I'm here. I'm here."

*

Crowley woke up with a start. He wasn't at his flat. He wasn't at the kitchen table where, after a half a second's thought, was the last place he remembered being. He was lying on what had to be Anathema's sofa and Aziraphale was leaning over him.

"What are you doing here?" This was all wrong, that- that- witch! She'd called him here! "You shouldn't be here!"

"Hush," Aziraphale said. "Hold still a moment."

"You called him," Crowley snapped, turning his gaze on Anathema, who was getting to her feet. "I told you not toooo." The last syllable became a hiss.

"Now you stop that," Aziraphale reprimanded him, firm but not unkind. "She was right to call me. You shouldn't have put her in that position. You should have come to me. You should have told me!"

"I couldn't...I...." Crowley frowned as the lack of pain registered. "Wait. Did you...you can't have..."

Aziraphale lifted the handkerchief. A few dark drops of blood had stained the pristine white cloth. Beneath that however Crowley's flesh had knitted back together, the skin unmarked.

"You should have come to me," Aziraphale repeated, folding and putting away the handkerchief. "An angel is rather better placed to find a supernatural blade than a witch."

Crowley nodded, relief and guilt flooding through him, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, choking out the words. "I didn't want to risk you getting involved. I can't lose you."

"Nor I you, you foolish demon!" Aziraphale sat back on his heels. "My dear. I can't believe you would hide something so important from me. You were hurt when we went to the exhibition, weren't you? And there I was, wittering on while you were in pain!"

"I like when you witter," Crowley said in his defence. He reached out, grateful to be able to move freely once more. He took Aziraphale's hand. "I like to see you happy. And you do the same for me. You do things with me just because I like them."

Aziraphale nodded. "Of course I do! We're friends. Best friends. More than what humans seem to know how to explain. Which is why I was so angry you didn't tell me your secret, no matter the reasons. I was so angry someone had hurt you. I smote someone, Crowley."

"You did?"

"Yes! The angel who took you, wounded you and left you to die in prolonged agony. I've no doubt Gabriel was behind it but he kept his hands clean, and his go-between paid the price. I felt rage like I had never known before at the thought of losing you like this, after all we've been through. I thought...I thought I might Fall," Aziraphale confessed. "And I didn't even care."

"Angel!" Crowley slid from the sofa. He grabbed Aziraphale's shoulder, hard. "No. I never want that for you."

"I know." Aziraphale smiled sadly. "That's just one more reason I love you."

Crowley sniffed a few times, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thank you for saving me."

"You don't need to thank me. But I accept your apology. And if you want to apologise to Anathema that would make me happy."

Crowley could not deny his angel this simple request. He glanced over at Anathema. "I'm sorry, and thank you, too."

She nodded, left the room. Aziraphale got to his feet, helping Crowley up. In the kitchen was the sound of the kettle boiling.

"Would you like tea? I'd like tea," Anathema said as they joined her in the kitchen, Crowley snatching up his glasses and putting them back on.

Her hands were shaking and Aziraphale gently led her to a dining chair. "I'll make the tea," he said. "It's the least I can do. And I am terribly sorry I frightened you earlier." They were all a little shaken, truth be told, and the ritual of making and sipping the tea helped them all relax.

After tea Crowley declared he could drive them back safely and they said their goodbyes. On the way home Aziraphale said he was going to send a nice bouquet of flowers to Anathema and Crowley agreed and said he had to donate to Gutenberg.

"The inventor of the printing press? He's long dead. I met him you know," Aziraphale said.

"Of course you did, angel," Crowley said. "Not him, but something of his legacy. They scan - they take pictures of all the pages of very old books and put them on the computer so people like Anathema can read them."

"Oh, the picture she showed me! Preserving books on computers! I must say I prefer actual books but I can see how it's useful to make texts more accessible. How marvellous. Whatever will humans come up with next!"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Crowley said. But he was going to be able to find out thanks to his beloved angel. The Bentley played Queen's "You're My Best Friend", the lyric "Oooh you make me live, Whatever this world can give to me, It's you you're all I see" bringing a smile to Crowley's face.

_I really love you  
Oh, you're my best friend_

**Author's Note:**

> Project Gutenberg,can be found at www.gutenberg.org though quite what treasures you might find is a matter for you to discover
> 
> [rebloggable tumblr promo](https://meridianrosewrites.tumblr.com/post/188106793287/theres-no-healing-the-wound-meridianrose)


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